The Great Wide Somewhere
by beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: Just when Belle is about to start her new life as a single, independent woman, she gets accidentally kidnapped by an international crimelord.
1. Chapter 1

It was the first day of the rest of Belle's life. She had on a new outfit, new shoes, and a new curly blow-out, and was ready to face her job at the library as a newly-single woman. The past few days had been a tornado of crying and avoiding the fiancé she'd left, but yesterday's Belle Beauty Day had cleared that up, and now she was all set to take on the world alone for the first time.

Except that first, she had to deliver some flowers for her father—but then she was all set to take on the world alone.

The Midas estate was a grand affair, and far too gaudy for Belle's tastes, but that didn't stop her from wanting to cry in awe of the sweeping grounds, valet parking, and gold-plated everything. All of the flowers in her packed delivery truck were for an event that Mr. Midas was throwing in honor of his daughter—a engagement party, perhaps?—so Belle had her work cut out for her, delivering and setting up without the help of her father or any of his hired hands.

It was going to do a number on the dress she'd bought to honor her newfound independence, but she'd promised her father that she'd get everything done, and independent women did not renege on promises just because of their clothing.

The estate was crawling with staff, people carrying boxes and vases to and fro, with the occasional sculpture thrown in. Belle parked the van in the circular guest drive, and was pounced on by a woman with an earpiece as soon as she opened the door.

"Moe French?" the woman said, frowning like Belle had just slapped her.

"No, his daughter, Belle." She offered her hand, but the woman had let out a breath and was now checking things off a list on her clipboard.

"Great. How are you with decorating?" The woman looked up, stared at Belle's hand for a moment, and then reached forward to shake it.

"Excuse me?"

"Hi, yes, I need at least ten men out in front for the flowers," the woman said, looking down at her clipboard. "No, I have it under control. Moe sent his daughter."

"So someone will come get the flowers?" Belle asked.

"Yes, and then you'll need to tell them where to put them because our flower arranger decided it was a great day to get into an accident." The woman scoffed, and Belle tried not to hold her ire against her—she was clearly in charge, and even Belle would be frantic in the same situation.

"All right, but I have to—"

"Great, come with me."

There seemed to be no choice other than to listen to the woman and trail along after her. They stalked through the mansion fast enough that Belle had no chance to look around, and wound up in a room that could have held Belle's new apartment as well as the rest of the library.

"Oh, wow," Belle said, looking around with wide eyes.

"Yeah, you get used to it. Okay, so when the boys come in with your flowers, you tell them where to go. There are going to be ice sculptures on those tables, and those smaller tables are for guests, but anywhere other than that. We've got the hallway flowers covered, so it's just this room we'll need you for."

Belle nodded, trying to keep up while not feeling overwhelmed. She could have furnished her entire apartment with the money it would have taken to buy one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

"All right, listen up everybody!" The woman clapped her hands, and all of the men trooping in with flowers paused. "Ms. Midas is going to tell you where to put everything, so you listen to her or it'll be your ass on the line for ruining her special day. Got it?"

"Excuse me?" Belle said, watching all of the men nod and look at her in awe.

"Just go with it. We'll never get anything done if they think you're a nobody flower girl." She clapped her hands again. "All right, get to work!"

Belle found herself alone with at least a dozen men, most of them carrying flowers, and a hall big enough to need its own government to decorate all by herself.

"Um." She cleared her throat. She was independent now. Independent people did not say 'um.' "Yes. Okay. We'll need to put some of the roses in that corner over there, by the portrait of, um—" The young woman in the picture was obviously, to Belle's eyes, the actual Kathryn Midas. "—my sister."

Everyone started moving again, and Belle was left trying to shout over the clattering noise of footsteps and heavy lifting.

"And then maybe one of the tinier arrangements to accent the ice sculptures!" she called, but no one heard her. She was a little afraid that the woman would beat her with the clipboard if this wasn't done perfectly, so she needed to think of a new method, fast. There was an ornate satin chair to her left, so she took her shoes off and climbed up.

"All right, listen up!" she yelled, and that got everyone's attention.

Once they could all see her, it was smooth sailing. This would never have happened were her father or Clive there, because either they would be doing it, or no one would have asked because neither looked artistic. Perhaps being a professional decorator wouldn't be so bad—it wasn't a librarian, but no one said that decorators couldn't read, and perhaps she'd even get hired to design a library.

"Excuse me, Miss Midas?"

She looked down at the man at her elbow. He had a mop of blonde hair and baby blue eyes that made him look like a guileless prince charming. The muscles bulging out of his t-shirt indicated that this wasn't his first time doing heavy labor. Belle almost averted her eyes out of habit, until she remembered that she was single now, and she didn't have to.

"Yes, can I help you?" she asked, smiling in a way that she hoped conveyed her command of the situation.

"We need you in the atrium." He pointed to a doorway.

Belle chewed her lip. "Are you sure? I think my main job was in here."

"It will only take a minute," he said, Russian accent thick. He offered his hand to help her down, and if it was only going to take a minute, then it wouldn't hurt, so she braced herself on his arm and stepped off the chair, into her shoes.

He let go of her once she was down and led the way to the atrium, so Belle had the chance to study his muscular back. Did he have a family, back in Russia? Maybe he sent them money every month, money that he made lifting things for rich people. Or maybe he was paying his way through medical school. She liked the sound of that.

Clive had never liked people with accents. He said that people should stay in their own areas—for their honeymoon, he was going to take her on a tour of the part of England that wasn't their home in Surrey. He wouldn't even hear of going to Scotland or Ireland.

"What's the problem?" Belle asked, trying to keep up in her heels.

"There are decorations in the closet, and we were told that you were very picky," he said, beckoning her to a large set of doors.

Oh god—what if Kathryn Midas really was picky, and she told them the wrong thing? It wasn't like her father would fire her, but Mr. Midas could easily ensure that the only job she ever had again was working for her own dad. He might even stop buying from Game of Thorns.

"Oh, well, I think I'd rather have a second opinion," she said, but then he turned around to give her the full effect of his blue, blue eyes, hand on the closet door.

"Please. Just take a look."

He swung the door open and Belle stepped forward to peek in. Then, strong hands were shoving her forward into the closet, where equally strong hands caught her, and she was just about to protest when a wet rag was slapped over her mouth and nose, and then she was unable to do anything at all.

* * *

She woke up lying on a couch, blanketed in a leather trench coat that someone had taken the time to tuck around her. There was a quiet, humming noise like an airplane cockpit, but she took that as a symptom of her unconsciousness.

She blinked the last fuzz of sleep from her eyes, and determined that all of the shapes around her were men. Only one of them was paying her any mind, and he gave the impression that he'd been watching her for quite some time. He was bald and bright-eyed, with a bloody looking cut on his forehead.

"Is your head okay?" she asked, voice thick with sleep. Her whole face hurt.

"Go back to sleep, Miss Midas," he said, his accent sounding like a stilted parody of itself. "We are almost there."

"Almost where?" She tried to lift her head, but it was pounding like she'd been hit—what had happened?—so she kept it on the pillow and just turned it.

Out the window, she could see clouds.

"Why am I on a plane?" She tried to sit up, forcing herself to keep moving despite the pounding in her head and the way her stomach rolled. When she tried to balance herself, her hands met a plastic resistance. "What—" She wiggled until the coat fell to reveal wrists zip-tied together. Something was not right.

"Please, Miss Midas. Don't make this more difficult. Go back to sleep."

"Are you kidnapping me?"

"No."

She and the man stared at each other, and she narrowed her eyes—maybe he didn't understand the word in English, though his English was good.

"I have already kidnapped you."

She pressed her lips into a line. "Semantics."

"What?"

"Nothing." Somewhere in the back of her head, it occurred to her that she should be frightened, but she didn't have the energy. The fact that she'd been kidnapped from the mansion of an oil tycoon was still too surreal for her to process.

"Miss Midas—"

"I'm not Miss Midas," she said, trying to sit up.

He laughed, a chilling sound in the muffled cabin. It was even more chilling that none of the other men paid any attention to it. If this was a crime ring, it was well-organized, and Belle was impressed.

"Do not try to get out of this. We know who you are."

"No, really. I'm not Miss Midas. My name is—" Was it safe to give her real name? She'd already been kidnapped, so she might as well. "—Belle."

"A thing to keep in mind when lying is to come prepared," he said. "That way, you are not stalling for time to think of things."

"No, I'm really not Kathryn Midas," she said, glaring at him. "She's blonde. The entire Midas family is blonde."

"We know you are not Kathryn Midas," he said, shaking his head as if she were a small, stupid child. "You are her sister."

Whenever Belle made it back to her father's van, she was going to find the organizer who had decided it was a good idea to pretend that she was a Midas and punch her in the face.

"She doesn't have a sister, and if she does, I'm not her. My name is Belle French. I'll prove it, give me my wallet." She held both hands out, since they were fastened together.

"I do not have it, Miss Midas."

"What? Why? Aren't you kidnapping me for money?"

"Ransom money. Much more than you keep in your wallet."

"But I'm not Miss Midas! Mr. Midas isn't going to ransom me!"

"Well." He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs and folding his hands in his lap. "Then you should be prepared for what happens to girls who don't get ransomed."

It sounded like something her father might have said to her as a child—'you know what happens to girls who stay up too late reading,' or 'do you know what happens to girls who don't eat their vegetables?'—except this was making Belle shiver.

"What happens?"

He looked at her, and his expression didn't change. "They die."


	2. Chapter 2

Belle had no intention of dying once they realized that they'd kidnapped the wrong woman, but she didn't seem to be in too much danger yet because no one was in any hurry to listen to her. They landed in a country that definitely wasn't England, on the helipad of a squat grey building. She had about thirty seconds to worry over how she was going to disembark with her hands bound before the bald man was wrapping her in the trench coat and slinging her over his back with all the effort it would take to lift a towel.

"I'm not a sack of flour, you know," she said, clinging to him as best she could while he descended the waving rope ladder.

"You could be soon."

"Well, that's just not true," she said before she could help it. "I'm not a grain."

"Fertilizer, then."

He set her down and shoved her toward the door to the staircase. There were two men moving down in front of her, and four more behind them, so she couldn't make a run for it—not that she would have, especially not in heels while on the roof of a building in a country she had yet to identify.

"Where are we?" she asked, trying to use her elbow to support herself against the wall. His hand came out to steady her.

"Turkey."

"Where in Turkey?"

"Somewhere."

How long had she been out? She'd only been awake half an hour before they'd landed, and she knew it took more than that to get anywhere in Turkey. A small bubble of anger rose in her chest, and she stumbled on a stair. She'd been on a plane across Europe, and they hadn't even had the decency to let her look out the window?

"Where are you taking me?"

"Your room." He pushed her toward a hallway, and she was relieved that she wouldn't be locked in a dark closet. Being kidnapped might be tolerable if she had a room. At least she was sort of seeing the world.

"So, who are you?" she asked.

"For someone who may die soon, you ask a lot of questions."

"If I'm going to die anyway, what's the point in not asking questions?"

He stopped walking, and Belle stopped too, turning around. He looked like she had surprised him, and like he might smile if given the right instruction.

"We are almost there," he said, giving her another shove—but this one was lighter.

They walked down the hallway, still trailed by all of the silent men, and then stopped in front of what looked like a jail cell being used for storage. One of the men in front unlocked it, and then the bald man shoved Belle in before she could protest, locking it behind her while she caught her balance.

"My—my room?" She took a deep breath, trying not to cry. She couldn't show weakness if she wanted to live.

"It sounded nicer than prison." He shrugged and pocketed the key.

Belle opened and closed her mouth like a fish, trying to think of something to say that was both pithy and intelligible. She was an independent woman now—this should have been a piece of cake.

"What do I do if I need to use the bathroom?" There. That was perfect.

The bald man shrugged. "There's a bucket in there somewhere."

Belle squeaked without meaning to. "Absolutely not!" Independent women fought for what they wanted. She couldn't fight for her freedom at this moment, but she could certainly fight for a toilet. "I need to use a bathroom, and you are going to take me to a real one."

"No." He shook his head.

"Yes." Firm, she had to be firm, and make eye contact. That was how Clive made business deals, and how he'd managed to evade her breakup for months. "Take me to a real bathroom, with a working toilet and running water. Please." She met his eyes, and he looked amused.

"Fine, but we are not untying your hands."

She considered this. "Fine." At least she wouldn't have to pee in a bucket.

"Petrov, Kovac." He jerked his chin toward the doorway while he unlocked the cell, and Belle felt a surge of confidence in herself. All she had to do was keep being strong, and everything would be fine.

* * *

Renard found the closest room with a TV and flung the door open. "Lagunov." The man jumped, startled from his nap. "Turn on the BBC."

He had men monitoring the news networks, but he wanted to see for himself. Something about the prisoner just wasn't right—she didn't act like a spoiled rich woman, though she looked fancy and expensive enough. When they'd first taken Elektra, all she'd done for days was cry, and it was only when he thought she would starve herself before her father could pay the ransom that he tried to coax her into speaking.

Heiresses weren't taught to have backbones—Miss Midas had more backbone than half the men he knew.

The BBC was covering a story in downtown London, something about a bank robbery in which he was not involved, and he frowned. An heiress disappearing the night of her engagement party was breaking, international news—it should have been all over.

"Try a different station," he said, and Lagunov obliged. They flipped through until a photo of the Midas estate popped up, swarmed with cars and people and cameras and lights. "Leave it."

"_—Midas celebrates the engagement of his only child, Kathryn, with—_"

Renard didn't hear much of what else the voiceover said, too busy watching the screen to see if Kathryn was there. Perhaps they just hadn't noticed her disappearance yet—perhaps she hadn't made her grand entrance. Except that it had been hours and hours, and someone would have noticed her disappearance, and he had already told the woman in his possession that he knew she wasn't _Kathryn_, but her sister, but Kathryn didn't have a sister—

—and she was on screen now, laughing and socializing on the arm of some man with a big nose, and the woman he'd taken was right, the entire Midas family was blonde.

He roared, sinking his fist into the corner of Lagunov's bed.

"Sir?"

"We got the wrong girl," he snarled, storming out before Lagunov could respond.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? He wasn't going to kill her—maybe if she'd been weak and annoying, but she wasn't. She'd been curious, and demanding, and he didn't like killing women anyway. He didn't revel in the pain of people who weren't his enemies, and this woman—Belle?—certainly was not his enemy.

He paced, trying to puzzle it out. He should go to his training room and box with the punching bag, but he didn't have time for that. He had to make a decision now.

Then, like a sign, a high-pitched scream ripped through the corridor, and he ran.

* * *

Belle stared at herself in the mirror, unable to not let out the shriek she had. It had taken her awhile to get the hang of using the toilet with her hands bound, and she'd been so focused on relieving herself that she hadn't bothered to look at her reflection.

Now, it was all she could do.

The door was kicked open with so much force, it almost broke free from its hinges and landed on her, but the three men bursting in with guns kept it from doing so. The bald man came running in last, skidding to a stop behind her.

"You," she said, unable to point at him because she had her hands covering the lower half of her face. "This is all your fault."

"What is?"

"This!" She dropped her hands, revealing angry red dots all around her mouth and nose, like an apple-colored beard, and turned around to face him so that she wouldn't have to look at it.

He didn't look alarmed enough for the situation. "Yes," he said. "It is an effect of chloroform. It will go away soon, you were knocked out quickly."

Belle felt her eyes fill with tears. "Is that all you can say after you ruined everything? Today was the first day of the rest of my life. Today—"

"Isn't every day the first day of the rest of your life? Technically?"

"Do you see this dress?" She thought she sounded calm, but the men gripped their guns tighter like she was threatening them instead of pointing at herself. "See it?"

"Yes." He looked ready to pounce if she attacked.

"This is the new dress that I bought to wear on the first day of my new life. These are the shoes I bought to go with it, because I wanted to look professional and like I could take on the world, because I was going to be independent and alone for the first time in my entire life. I was going to stop working for my father, and lease the apartment above the library so that I could move out of his, and it was going to be the first time I'd ever lived alone, and I was going to do it with my new manicure, my new outfit, and this blowout—but you ruined it, and then you gave me a cell instead of a room, even though I have been nothing but polite and courteous, despite the fact that you dragged me unconscious onto a plane to the middle east, and how could you do this to me? How?"

She'd thought she'd remained calm, but the ringing silence that followed her speech told her that she might have become a little pitchy. It seemed that, despite their guns and muscles, they were as alarmed as any other man by the threat of a woman crying.

For his part, the bald man in charge was standing his ground, and hadn't flinched away during her tirade. He was smaller than all the other men, and not much bigger than her, but she could tell he wasn't someone to underestimate.

"I have decided to let you live, even though you are not Miss Midas," he said, which did make her feel a little better, but did not address any of her present concerns—the number one being her presence in a foreign country where she shared her accommodations with a mop and some duct tape.

"Thank you. Does this mean you'll send me home on the next plane?"

"No. I cannot let you go back. But—" For the first time, he looked hesitant, glancing back at the men flanking him. "I will give you a room."

"Really?" Perhaps whenever she got out of this, she should be a hostage negotiator—she was doing well enough for herself.

"Yes. But there are rules, and you will not break them. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She nodded, clasping her hands in front of her. "Yes, I understand."

"Come with me." He took her arm and the men straightened up, and the group of them marched out of the bathroom. He muttered some things in Russian, and the men muttered back, and then the group of them all changed direction like they'd choreographed it while Belle stumbled along in her independent-woman heels.

"So will you tell me who you are now? Since I'm to be here for awhile?" she asked, looking at her captor. His hand was still on her arm.

"My name is Renard."

"Is that your real name?"

"No."

She nodded, pressing her lips together. If she was only going to know these people for however long she was here, she was going to have to find a way to converse with them that would get more than monosyllabic answers.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Belle," she said, then cursed herself. She'd been intending to give him a clever pseudonym, maybe provoke him into a facial expression.

"Is that your real name?"

"Yes. It's short for Annabelle."

He grunted, and tugged her down a hallway. They continued in silence, Belle trying to prioritize her questions so that she could get the important ones out before Renard decided that he was done talking.

"Here," he said, opening a door and pulling her to a stumbling stop at the same time.

The room he revealed was nice, if a bit utilitarian. There was a twin-size bed in the middle with a navy comforter and white sheets, and a nightstand with a bald lamp. In the corner was a small closet, next to a small bathroom. There was one window next to the bed, big enough for a person to slip through, but she could see men outside already, fixing bars to it.

"You will not be able to lock this room, or the bathroom," he said, pointing to both. "You will have guards twenty-four/seven to make sure that you do not leave. You will do as I say. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She clasped her hands in front of her. If she had to choose prisons, she would choose the one with a private toilet.

"If you need something, ask your guards. Someone may bring it to you."

"Soap?" If she was being given basic amenities, basic hygiene should be included.

The men conferred in Russian for a few seconds, and then Renard looked back at her. "Someone will bring soap. And a toothbrush."

"Thank you."

He motioned to the men and all five of them pivoted to leave.

"Wait!" Belle rushed after them, and Renard paused in the doorway while the rest marched out.

"What?"

"May I call my father? To tell him I'm all right?"

"No," he said, before she even had the chance to finish the question. Then he was gone, and two men were stationing themselves outside her door, crossing their guns over it as makeshift prison bars.

"May I close the door?" she asked them.

"Yes. But we check on you soon."

She nodded, gentling the door closed so that they would have no reason for alarm. Then, once she was alone in her tiny scrubbed room, she curled onto the lumpy bed, pressed her reddened face into the pillow, and cried.


	3. Chapter 3

Lagunov found Renard standing outside under Belle's window, overseeing the construction of her prison bars.

"Sir," he said, standing at attention.

"Yes?"

"You need to come see this."

Above all men, Renard trusted Lagunov, so even if the urgency in his voice hadn't gotten to him, that fact alone would have convinced him to follow. They jogged into the building and up three flights of stairs, into a room with several TVs set to different news stations. He turned up the BBC on the largest.

"_—tripled the security on the Midas estate now that a threat for kidnapping has been found—_"

"Threat?" He looked at Lagunov, feeling just the tiniest bit panicked. "We never sent a threat. Who sent a threat?"

"Wait." He pointed at the TV.

"_—confirmed that Kathryn Midas is still in her father's home, and has not been abducted, despite the family receiving a ransom notice. Security in her room—_"

Renard roared, considering never watching the BBC again because it only brought bad news, and slammed his fist into the wall. Lagunov said nothing when his arm sunk into the hole it made.

"Who was in charge? Who sent the notice without checking with me?"

"Polzin, sir."

"He will be punished."

"Yes, sir. I will get him now, sir."

"No." He shook his head. "It will wait."

"Yes, sir."

His phone rang while he paced, debating the merits of going and yelling at the prisoner versus going to his gym. This couldn't be good.

"Speak."

"You did not get Kathryn Midas?"

He recoiled from Elektra's voice, ashamed to have let her down. "We had no chance. She was not where she was supposed to be."

"You did not have a backup plan?"

"She made a surprise trip and none of my men were with her."

"And yet, you sent a ransom?"

Polzin could not be dead fast enough. "It was a mistake. Do not worry, I will be punishing the culprits."

"Who did you take, if not Kathryn Midas?"

"No one. We came back empty-handed." Kidnapping no one was less embarrassing than kidnapping the wrong woman, especially when it was so obvious now that Belle was not a Midas. He had even known that all of the Midases were blonde.

"Renard, we need that money!"

"Yes, I know." He pinched the bridge of his nose, but it provided no relief. "Do not worry. I will figure something out."

"Renard," Elektra purred, and he paused in his useless massage.

"Yes?"

"Do not disappoint me, my love."

"Never."

"Good." She hung up, and Renard heaved a sigh. Without another word, he strode from the room, leaving Lagunov behind. It would do him good to find out about his prisoner, maybe see if there was some way he could spin this into a good thing.

When he arrived at her door, he could hear the muffled sobbing that had his men looking antsy. He waved them aside, then rapped thrice on the metal before throwing the door open.

Belle lay on her bed, barefoot, curled up with a pillow between her arms. Her pretty makeup was running down her face, leaving mascara stains on the pillowcase. With her legs curled the way they were, her dress had ridden up to her thigh, giving him an eyeful of pale skin.

"Do you need something?" she asked, sniffling.

"It is dinner time."

"I'm not hungry," she said.

It was hard to tell by her congested, tearful voice whether she was being defiant or truthful, but Renard bared his teeth anyway. He was not in the mood for weeping women, and if she was going to fight him on something like food, then he was going to leave.

"Fine, then starve." He pivoted around.

"I am so sorry that I'm too sad to be hungry."

He didn't know if she meant for him to hear this or not, but he knew that he had heard it, and that this wasn't sincere, and he whirled back around, teeth bared.

"Watch yourself, girl, or you will find yourself less one bed, and a few fingers."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

"Maybe." She lifted her puffy face from the pillow. "But you can't do anything worse to me than you did to my _father_."

He paused with his mouth open to retort. He didn't remember what she'd said her last name was, but he was sure he'd never done anything to her father. "What are you talking about?"

"You took a man's only daughter—the only family he has left—right from under his nose, and you don't even have the decency to allow her a phone call to tell him that she's not lying dead somewhere, or being sold into the sex trade."

It wasn't the way her reddened lip trembled or the way her blue eyes sparkled like prisms when they filled with tears that gave him pause—though those were lovely to look at. It was the fact that she spoke of her father, and no one had ever done that before, and no one had reminded him of fatherhood in a long time.

"I will call him."

He felt a surge of triumph at the way her eyes widened—finally, after all of her surprising him, he got to surprise her.

"What?"

"I will call him and tell him that you are alive."

She lowered her head back to the pillow, and more tears streamed down her face. "Will you tell him that I love him?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

* * *

It took an hour of crying for Belle to venture off the bed and into the bathroom to wash her face. It was streaked with mascara and eyeliner, and a bubble of hollow laughter rose up in her throat at the sight. After her impromptu flight and long crying jag, she looked scary enough to frighten children, and a shower was just the thing she needed to make herself feel better.

She splashed some water onto her face and did her best to get the black lines off with toilet paper before going to inform her guards of her intentions, but she stopped halfway across the room. What if, instead of insuring her privacy, letting them know only egged them on to interrupt her? She knew that it was rude of her to assume that all of the soldiers were pigs, but she couldn't help the assumption.

Still, she didn't want them to barge in because they thought something was wrong. She had always lived by believing the best of people, and she wasn't going to stop now.

They both jumped when she opened the door.

"Excuse me," she said, wishing her voice sounded prettier and more polite, instead of stuffy and childlike. "I'm going to take a shower. I'll leave this door open for you?"

"Yes. That is good." The left guard nodded, and the right followed.

"Thank you." She ducked into a half curtsy of thanks that left the quieter of the two men with flushing cheeks, and then went in search of something to wear that wasn't her dress.

She found nothing, and it was too cold to just wear a towel, so she hung her dress in the bathroom to steam it while she showered. When she left the bathroom, however, there was a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt folded on the corner of her bed.

They weren't that big, which was surprising, and she wondered if the clothes were Renard's, since all of the men she'd seen were huge. Once dressed, with the sweatpants rolled to her ankles, she slipped her heels back on and clicked her way to the door.

"Excuse me." Both men turned to look at her. "Who do I thank for the clothes?"

They looked like she'd just asked them if they could fly. For long seconds, they were silent, having a conversation with each other through eye contact alone.

"Lagunov brought them. He had to find small clothes from—" They looked at each other again. "—someone."

Belle took this to mean that they were, in fact, Renard's clothes. They smelled like soap, and she found herself imagining if it would still smell the same on him, material stretching taut to accommodate his bulk. Did he always smell like soap, or was it just his laundry?

"Well, thank you. It was very nice of you to think of me."

"It was Lagunov. We did nothing."

"You had to say something, didn't you?" She lifted an eyebrow. "How else would he have known?"

They conferred in Russian for a few seconds, then the smaller one turned to her and said, "You are welcome."

She smiled, and ducked into a half-curtsy. If her guards were this polite, things shouldn't be too bad. It was a terrible situation, but if her father knew she was safe, then she would try her hardest to see it as an adventure.

"So, what are your names?" she asked once they had turned around.

They looked at each other, like they were trying to decide if they were allowed to continue talking to her.

"I'm Belle," she prompted.

"Petrov."

"Beitel."

"But we are not here to talk," Petrov said, furrowing his thick brow. "We are here to guard you."

"Well, you're here to keep me from leaving, right?" She fluttered her eyelashes—not as pretty with her chloroform burn, but it would have to do.

"Yes."

"So how can I leave if we're talking?"

They looked at each other again, and began conversing in low Russian. Belle waited, almost patient, until they both turned.

"Something could happen. We don't want to be distracted. It is for your safety."

Belle pursed her lips. She didn't like being told what to do, especially when it involved being locked in a room with no human interaction.

"Well—could I have a book, then?" She interrupted them before they could look at each other, stepping forward to say, "I could even read to you."

She bit her lip, fluttering her lashes until they were forced to look at each other again.

* * *

Renard appeared in front of the room to find his guards leaning against the door frame, Belle's clear voice drifting down the hallway. She was reading the _Iliad_, one of four books that he kept in his private office, and he was going to find whoever took it and throw them out a window.

"Sorry to break up this little party."

His men snapped to attention, but his prisoner had the nerve to look up from her seat on the floor like he'd done something wrong—like she planned to scold him.

"Hello, Renard. We were reading. Would you like to join us?"

He gritted his teeth. "Take a fifteen minute break," he said to his men, in Russian. They saluted and marched off. Belle closed her book—_his_ book—and uncrossed her legs to stand up, taking her time like she didn't have a dangerous killer glaring at her from the doorway. Maybe he should rough her up a bit to wipe the ease from her movements.

"Thank you for calling my father. You did, right?"

"No."

She had the nerve to look angry, like he owed her something, so he started talking again before he could get mad about it. "I decided that it would make things worse. We will bring you a phone tomorrow and you will call him."

The look she gave him now was far worse than anger, and Renard had to force himself to hold his ground.

"Really?"

He thought he heard tears in her voice, so he averted his eyes from her face when he nodded. Before he could stagger away, her arms were around him. He had the sneaking suspicion that she was pressing her wet eyes into his neck, and he determined to be glad that he couldn't feel that as he patted her on the back with stiff hands.

"Thank you, Renard."

"Whatever." He tried to disentangle her, and when she stepped back, he took his first real look at her torso in an attempt to ensure that she was no longer touching him. "Are you wearing my clothes?"

She looked down at herself. "I don't know. Someone brought them to me."

Most of him was angry, and he clenched his jaw to keep his snarl at him, but a tiny part of him approved of his pretty prisoner having his things all over her. The rest of him was still a little unsettled from her hug. He wasn't sure that Elektra had ever hugged him without it turning into sex on a wall.

"Are you still reading?" he asked instead of answering.

"Yes, I think so. Unless you scared off Mr. Petrov and Mr. Beitel."

"They'll be back." He pushed his way into her room, gesturing for her to sit. "Start from the beginning."

He expected her to protest, because she'd protested everything else, but all she did was perch on the edge of the bed, patting the other side in invitation to sit, and turn back to the beginning of the book. He'd have joined her, but she had already hugged him and that was enough of not being touched for one evening, so he—Renard, the international criminal wanted by several countries, capable of killing anyone, anywhere with no more than a phone call—sat down on the floor against the wall to listen.


	4. Chapter 4

Belle didn't sleep that night. She tried, but all she could do was toss and turn and listen to the hushed voices of her guards outside in a language that she thought was German. She crept out of bed as soon as the grey morning light peeked through the bars on her window, and when she opened the door, both of her guards jumped.

"Am I allowed to have breakfast?" she asked, hoping that Renard wouldn't stick to his assurance of her starvation from the night before. After all, she hadn't been hungry then—and now, after neither sleeping nor eating, she was starved.

"Yes. We will call for it." Beitel plucked his radio off his belt, but Belle stopped him.

"Can't I go eat it somewhere else?"

"You are not to leave this room."

"That was never explicitly stated in the rules," Belle said, crossing her arms. "I should be allowed to leave with an escort."

They were saved trying to find an answer by the sound of boots clanking down the hallway, and then Renard turned the corner, flanked by two men.

"What are you doing awake?" he asked.

"What are you doing awake?" She folded her arms, wishing she'd thought to put her shoes on before coming out here. The floor was freezing.

"I was coming to wake you up."

"Well, then it's convenient that I'm already awake, isn't it?"

They looked at each other, Belle trying to smile prettily despite the dark circles around her eyes and the chloroform rash. His jaw twitched—a look with which Belle had become familiar over the years in the faces of everyone she conversed with.

"Are you ready to go?"

She frowned. "Go where?"

"To call your father."

"Where are we going to do that?"

"Outside."

Belle stared at him and all his men, wrapped in their leather coats and gloves. All she had for warmth were the sweatpants she was wearing. "But it's freezing out there."

"Then I suggest you put shoes on."

She ran a hand through her mussed hair, making note to ask for a comb. "All right. Hang on." It wasn't worth it to fight him on this. She needed to talk to her father, and if he wanted to torture her a bit with temperature, then she would just have to deal with it.

When she walked out of her room, however, in his clothes and her heels, Renard's jacket was over his arm, and he held it out to her as soon as he saw her. She stared at it for a second, forehead wrinkled, and then looked back up at him.

"What?"

"Take it." He stretched his arm farther. It was only them in the hallway now, and if they were going outside alone, why hadn't he ordered someone else to give her his jacket?

"Don't you need it?" she asked, looking at his bare arms. She would have needed both of her hands to fully wrap around his muscle.

"No. But you will. It looks like it will snow soon."

Still feeling skeptical, she accepted the jacket and pulled it on. It was too big, and it hung on her arms, but it was heavy and warm, and she was grateful for it even if she knew she looked like a cracked out hooker in this state.

"Thank you," she said, wrapping a hand around his upper arm for balance. Her toes were going numb from the cold, and she didn't trust herself to walk.

He grunted and started forward, moving like he didn't know she was attached to him, and she spun on her heels with a tiny yelp that had him pausing.

"Did you forget how to walk?" he asked.

"Well, I was trying to use you for balance, but you moved," she said, forgetting momentarily who she was talking to, and that maybe it was unwise to use her kidnapper for support.

"You didn't try very hard."

"I did, I grabbed your arm." She folded hers over her chest, having difficulties with lifting the heavy jacket sleeves to get it right.

Renard looked down at his arm like it was a ghost that had just appeared, and then back at Belle. Even his drooping eye was bright. "You did?"

She nodded, and took a step closer, feeling like her shoes and feet were moving separately of each other. Then, like she knew she would—especially with the added weight of his jacket—she tripped, and Renard's hands shot out to steady her.

"You are a lot of work, you know that?" He slid an arm around her back like someone might if she'd twisted her ankle, taking her weight onto his shoulder. "Can't you be a little more graceful while I am trying to do you a favor?"

"My toes are cold." Her cheeks felt hot, and they must have looked like tomatoes.

"You should wear more sensible shoes."

"Well, forgive me for not dressing appropriately—I wasn't expecting to be kidnapped."

They stared each other down, Renard with flattened lips and Belle with one eyebrow raised.

"You know, since you kidnapped me, it would be the gentlemanly thing for you to back down first," she pointed out, wanting to fold her arms but unable to with one slung around Renard's neck.

"I didn't know it was a contest," he said, looking away, and Belle pressed her lips together to keep from snorting. "Do you want to call your father or not?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Then walk."

They walked together, Renard trying to take most of her weight while she slipped and slid around on numb feet in tall heels, and Belle trying not to make him take all of her weight because she wasn't some helpless child. He kept pulling out his radio and muttering in Russian, but the only words Belle knew were pleasantries that Renard never seemed to use, so she couldn't translate any of it.

She hadn't been in this part of the building yet, but it looked about the same as her part. There were no decorations, just necessities, and everything was made of metal or glass. They passed dozens of closed doors, and a room that smelled like it might have been a kitchen, and when they made it to the main hall with the front door, there was a man standing at attention with a small pair of boots in his hand.

"Put them on," Renard said. When all she did was stare, he shook her. "Are you deaf now?"

Since they were already holding on to each other, it was easy for her to turn and throw her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Renard."

"Stop hugging me," he said, trying to pull her off. A small part of her wanted to make it difficult, but a bigger part of her was having actual difficulties because it was colder near the door, her feet were all but numb, and his jacket was huge.

"I'm showing my appreciation."

"I could still kill you."

She thought the chances of that lessened each time someone hugged him, but she stepped back anyway so that she could put the boots on. Once she was dressed, dwarfed in all of the men's military clothing, Renard all but tossed her outside into the freezing wind. She hunched over against the wind, but he walked through like he couldn't feel it, save for his squinting against the dirt and grit in the air.

"Where are we going?"

"The car. Your phone will not get service here."

The car that he pointed to was all the way across the rocky lawn, and the thought of Renard making the trip in just his t-shirt made Belle shudder.

"Do you want to share the coat?"

Renard stopped walking, so Belle did, too, twisting her fingers together in the huge jacket cuffs. When he turned around, his brow was furrowed.

"What?"

"The coat. You—you're not wearing one, and I think we can both fit in this one."

"Why?"

"It's freezing." She shivered for emphasis. "And you've got nothing."

He turned away, jaw set hard, and were all kidnappers this dramatic? "I don't need it. Keep walking."

She couldn't help worrying the entire way to the car, which was already on and heated, ready with a driver. Renard opened the door for her, ushering her into the blessed warmth before sliding in himself, and when she looked up from struggling with the seatbelt, he was holding a large, black cloth rolled into a thin strip.

"What's that?" Belle leaned away, eyeing it. It looked like a blindfold.

"You cannot see where you are going."

Belle's eyes widened, and she pressed herself against the door of the car, as though she could somehow hide from him in this tiny space. "No, please. I've never gone anywhere, but England, please don't blindfold me. I promise I'm awful with directions, I'll never know where we are."

"No. It is too dangerous. Either you cooperate, or I will have to use force. It is your choice."

She looked out the window one last time, biting her lip, and then scooted closer to Renard and closed her eyes.

"I knew you were a smart woman."

He was gentle, but there were times when his fingers pressed too hard, or he pulled too tight, and Belle winced.

"You have too much hair," he said, tying off the knot. "I should cut it off."

"Please don't," she said, reaching back to untangle some strands of hair from the cloth. She assumed he was watching carefully. He didn't speak again until her hands were back in her lap, and the car began to move.

"You should know that you will only be here for a short while."

She turned toward his voice, feeling silly for not being able to see him. "Where are you taking me then?"

"You will go home."

"What?" She frowned. "Really?"

"We are keeping you because you know too much, but once it does not matter, you will go home." She felt him shrug. "I am not a monster. I don't like to kill women if I do not have to."

"When will it stop mattering?"

For a second, she didn't think he was going to answer. She wished she could see his face to give her some sort of clue about whether or not she'd crossed a line, but all she had to go by was sounds, and he wasn't making any.

"When I am dead," he said.

* * *

The ride was about twenty minutes, at Belle's best estimate, and when Renard took her blindfold off, she saw they were parked in a parking garage. If she was being held here because someone had made a mistake, she should at least get to see the world.

"What?" Renard said, and she realized her lip was curling.

"Nothing. We're making the phone call here, right?"

"Yes."

She probably shouldn't have trusted him—she'd seen enough crime shows to know that parking garages with no security cameras were where people went to exchange goods and murder each other—but she took the phone anyway.

"Is there anything you need to do before I do this? Do you want to dial to make sure I'm not calling the police?"

"If you call the police, we'll just kill you and leave." He shrugged, and Belle resisted the urge to mock him in a high-pitched voice. Instead, she dialed the number, surprised to see her fingers shaking.

Her father picked up halfway through the first ring. "Hello?"

"Daddy?"

"Oh, my god, Belle, Belle, is that you? Oh my god, where are you? Are you safe? What—"

"Dad, Dad I'm okay, I promise."

He took a shuddering breath, and Belle felt tears stinging her own eyes. "Oh, Belle, I was so worried. Are you stranded somewhere? Can I come pick you up? The police wouldn't listen to me when I said you were missing, they said I didn't give a reasonable reason to think you were, oh god, where are you?"

"Dad, listen, okay? I need you to listen." She bit the inside of her cheek, knowing that if she cried, it would make it a thousand times worse.

"Yes, yes of course, my girl. I'm listening."

She looked up at Renard, unsure of what she was allowed to say, but he just sliced his hand across his throat—like threatening her was helpful.

"I'm not in England right now, and I promise I'm okay. I was taken by accident, but I'm okay, and I don't know when I'll be coming home, but I am coming home. I promise. And I'm okay."

"What do you mean you were taken by accident? This doesn't make any sense, Belle, I'm going to call the police—"

"No!" She glanced at Renard, who raised an eyebrow at her. Was this phone call being recorded so he could listen to it later? "No, Dad, don't do that. I'm fine. I—I'll call you when I can, okay?"

"But, Belle—"

"Daddy, you have to promise me you won't call any law enforcement. Can you promise?"

"Belle—"

"Promise me."

His sigh stuttered like he was sighing through tears, and Belle felt her own eyes well up. She bit her cheek harder, blinking. "All right. I promise. You're safe?"

"Very safe. And I'll be much safer if you just—if you just keep me in your heart, and remember that I love you."

"I love you, too, Belle. What will I tell Clive?"

Belle was startled into blinking, and looked at Renard like he could give her some sort of clue as to what was going on. He lifted an eyebrow.

"Why would you need to tell Clive anything?"

"I called him as son as I knew something was wrong. He's worried, my girl. We're all worried."

"Dad, I don't want you to tell him anything. He doesn't need to know, okay?"

"But, Belle, he's—"

"Dad, we're not together. He doesn't get any say in my life anymore. Now, I have to go. I love you. You promise you won't call anyone?"

"I love you too," he said, voice cracking. "Be safe, my love, and I promise I won't put you in any danger."

"Good bye, Dad. Love you." She hung up before it could go on, and took a deep, shaking breath. Renard took the phone from her trembling fingers, shut it off, and pulled the battery out. Then, he rolled down the window and chucked the battery in front of the car.

"What are you doing?" Belle asked, trying to wipe the tears away before they fell.

"Batteries have tracking devices." He said something to the driver in Russian, and he put the car in drive and started forward. There was a small crunch that must have been him rolling over the battery.

"Oh."

Renard lifted the blindfold, and for a second, she thought she saw the lines around his eyes soften. "May I?" he said.

She nodded, lip trembling despite her best efforts to clench her jaw against it. His hands were even more gentle this time, and it was like he didn't know where her head was as he tied the cloth around it. By the time he'd finished, she was crying in earnest, trying to keep as still as possible so that he wouldn't tangle her hair.

"There. It is done," he said, which she took as permission to let her back heave with sobs. Renard's legs shifted in the seat, and he sounded nervous when he said, "Eh, don't cry. You have spoken to your father. I have told you that you will live. And your tears will soak the cloth."

For all his bravado, Renard was the same as any man—he didn't want to see her cry. Maybe it was because emotions made him nervous, but Belle thought it might have been because, deep down, he didn't like to see people suffer.

This only made her cry more, though, and when she heard his arms fly up in distress, she tipped herself over, curling up with her head in his lap.

"What are you doing? Sit up. You cannot—"

"Just hug me for a minute, okay?" Belle said, needing a comforting touch even if it was an almost-stranger's. "Please."

His breathing shifted, and she felt his hands hover over her arms for a second, and then they settled down around her.

"Fine. But only a minute."

"Thank you," Belle said, but it was only when they had made it back that Renard removed his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

It took about a day for Belle to have all of his men wrapped around her tiny finger, but Renard was determined to resist. He was already attached to one woman, and he didn't need a second. As soon as he took Belle back from calling her father, he gave the men strict orders to keep her in her room and bring her food whenever she requested it.

Then he disappeared for a week.

His trip centered around running errands for Elektra, and he would have stayed in Azerbaijan indefinitely had he not received a distress call from headquarters and been forced to rush back. The forecast predicted a snowstorm, but Lagunov assured him that it was urgent enough to brave the weather.

If his private pilot noticed that he had added a nondescript black shopping bag to his luggage, he said nothing. When the helicopter landed amidst a wall of snow two and a half agonizing hours later, Renard took this bag himself, and as Lagunov met him on the stairs to get his other bag, he didn't question it either.

"What is wrong?"

"Come with me," Lagunov said, and Renard clenched his teeth. It couldn't be that bad, could it? Surely, if something was too wrong, he'd have heard about it.

When they hit the main floor, Renard turned toward the main control room, but Lagunov beckoned him in the opposite direction. Had someone infiltrated? Did they need him to question a prisoner?

"Where are you taking me?"

Lagunov didn't answer, and Renard's hand slid to rest on his gun. It gave him comfort to know that he could protect himself in one hand motion.

Then, Lagunov led him to Belle's room, lifting his hand to knock when her sentries stepped aside. Renard grabbed it.

"What is wrong? Why are we here?"

"You'll see."

She couldn't have been dead—there would be no point in knocking if she were—but maybe she had done something. Maybe she was betraying them. Something had to have happened. When Lagunov opened the door, however, all he saw was Belle lying in bed looking like a corpse, huddled in a mountain of blankets and staring glassy-eyed at the wall. Lagunov gestured like this answered his questions, and Renard yanked him back out of the room and shut the door.

"Are you telling me that I came all the way back here because she is lying in bed?" he growled, grabbing a fistful of the bigger man's shirt.

"The men are concerned. They think she is depressed."

"Of course she's depressed." He let go, then all but bowled him over by thrusting his shopping bag at him. "Do not lose this."

He walked in again, and Belle didn't even lift her head, so he shut the door behind him—he didn't want the men listening in on this conversation.

"You have been crying," he said, coming to stand in front of her.

"Not really." Her nose was swollen and her face was red where it wasn't ghostly—of course she'd been crying. She sounded like she had after calling her father.

"You have ruined my men," he said, and he wasn't sure if he was trying to make her laugh or feel guilty.

"What did I do this time?"

"They are worried about you."

"Oh."

Someone had brought her a chair, and Renard dragged it over to the bed now. She looked up at him with all the interest of a goldfish, and he wondered if something had happened, if the real reason he'd been called back was because someone had taken it into his head that Belle could be anyone's, any time he wanted.

"Is it snowing?" she asked, eyes flicking to his sleeves before settling on nothing again. There were a few flecks of white there, and he brushed them off.

"Yes."

"Where were you?"

"Out of the country."

"Where?"

"Stop being so nosy."

"Okay."

He frowned, unaccustomed to the itchy feeling building up in the back of his chest, like he'd forgotten to turn off the stove or blow out a candle. Stupid Belle. She still wasn't moving, just staring at him like he was dust on the wall, big enough that she knew he was there, but too insignificant for her to notice.

"Do you want to see the snow?" The words tumbled out of his mouth before he knew he wanted to ask, but when Belle met his eyes, something eased in his chest.

"Go outside, you mean?" She lifted her head, and he imagined that he saw a flicker of interest—a flicker of anything—flash in her glassy eyes.

"Yes."

"It's freezing." She bit her lip, settling back down on the pillow. "I won't take your coat again."

"I have something for you," he said, almost before she could get the words out, and her forehead wrinkled.

"Where?"

He shouldn't have given the bag to Lagunov. Now he would have to go get it, and everyone would know. At the time, he hadn't wanted to see Belle's reaction to his gift, but he hadn't counted on her being a vegetable, either.

"Get dressed. I will be waiting for you outside the door."

He shut the door behind him when he left, giving her no room to protest. He was doing this for her, and if she didn't want to go—well, she would regret that later, so he was saving her the option of her pride.

"Go," he said to the men, taking the bag from Lagunov before waving at them all to disappear.

She emerged five minutes later, pants bunched like she was wearing two pairs, zipping one of his windbreakers over one of his sweatshirts. Whoever kept giving her his clothing was going to get their face broken.

"Okay, I'm ready." She sniffled, and rubbed at the tip of her nose—had she been crying in there already? He was being nice. What did she have to cry over now?

"Here." He held the bag out to her, and she reached inside to pull out a royal blue coat, double breasted and tapered out at the waist.

"For me?"

"Who else would it be for?"

She shook it out, holding it up, and he didn't know what to make of the stillness on her face.

"This is perfect, Renard. Thank you."

He tried to hide about letting go of the breath he was holding. As soon as he'd seen the coat, he'd thought of Belle's eyes, and he couldn't stop himself from getting it for her.

"You needed a coat."

He thought she might hug him, but all she did was rip the tag off the collar before slipping her arms through the sleeves without taking the windbreaker off. When she got to the buttons, it was like she didn't know how her fingers worked, and they slipped and slid around, not managing to get any fastened.

"Let me," he said, brushing her hands aside. She held one side for him, allowing him to reach the first row.

"Renard?"

He bit his cheek. She was going to ask him something uncomfortable, wasn't she? Something like 'why did you get me such a nice coat' or 'why are your hands shaking' or 'why are you being so nice to me?'

"What?"

"May I borrow someone's gloves? My hands are freezing."

He'd have granted any request she made just because he was so relieved. "I will see what I can do." He started on the next row of buttons, barely resisting the urge to smooth her collar and tuck her into the coat when he finished.

"Thank you." She stuffed her hands in her pockets and spread her lips in a cracked, waxy smile. Perhaps he should get her lip balm as well—women liked lip balm, right?

"Follow me."

He led her out, keeping his coat on for her sake more than his own, barking orders into his phone because he hadn't picked up his radio yet. When they reached the door, they were met by two men with a pair of black leather gloves and military issue brown scarf.

"Here." He took the scarf, and, before he could even realize it was an odd thing to do, wound it around her neck. She lifted her own hair to make room, but it was him who tucked it as snugly as he could around her, making sure it would warm as much of her neck as possible. If she thought it odd, she didn't mention, and Renard was grateful.

He had to help her get her second glove on because the fingers were too big for her gloved hand to get purchase on anything, and Belle's face remained a fetching shade of cherry.

"Warm enough?" he asked, almost leaping backwards when he'd finished.

"We'll see," she said, tucking the arms of the gloves under the windbreaker. "I think this'll fend off the worst of the chill."

He nodded, then spun away from her and strode to the door, needing to put distance between them.

There was more snow outside than he was expecting, blanketing the ground in at least three or four inches, and Belle let out a breathless laugh that he felt all the way in his toes. Bound from head to toe in military clothing, save for her new blue coat, she looked like a pudgy bruise, especially when she ran and flopped into a thick patch of snow. He watched with his hands stuffed in his pockets, teeth clenched as she waved her arms and legs to make an angel.

"Don't you want to join me?" she asked, patting the snow beside her.

"No." He turned a fraction, but he could still see the downward turn of her lips from the corner of his eye. She struggled to her feet, taking care not to ruin the angel but smudging it near her knees anyway. Instead of going deeper into the lawn, she walked over to him.

"Let's take a walk?"

He swallowed around his clenched jaw and nodded, starting forward without her. She shuffled up next to him, face pink from the cold now instead of tears.

"Have you ever built a snowman?"

"No."

"Not even when you were a kid?"

He look at her sideways. She was biting her lip, watching him with eyes that were too wide for his health. "A few times."

Her smile was small, cracked lips pale against her pink cheeks, but it made him feel like he was being thawed from the inside out. He looked away.

"Where are you from?"

He turned. "Why?"

She lifted her shoulders a fraction, weighed down by all of her layers. "If I'm going to be here for awhile, I might as well get to know you."

There were thousands of reasons that it was a bad idea to tell her anything, the least of them being that she could use it against him someday.

"Outside of Moscow. You are from Australia?"

"Yeah. Melbourne. But I've been in England since I was fifteen, so that's where home is."

"Do you live in London?"

"No, just outside, in Ealing."

"You like it there?"

He looked over in time to see her shrug. Her nose was red and there were puffy purple bags under her eyes—maybe those would disappear when being outside cheered her up.

"Yeah, it's nice. I'm a librarian, you know—or, well, I guess I was. I imagine being gone without explanation for over a week is a good way to lose a job." She chuckled without humor, and he told himself that the twinge in his gut was from thinking that being a librarian sounded boring.

"Why were you in the Midas house?"

"Well, my dad owns a flower shop, and I was doing a delivery for him. My last delivery, actually—I was going to quit right after."

"Right." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "The first day of the rest of your life."

She smiled at him, sniffling through her swollen nose. "Exactly."

He was quiet, trying to think of a way to draw attention away from the fact that he had been paying attention to her when she spoke, but conversation for conversation's sake was not his forte. He was only ever nice when he wanted something, or if he was lulling his enemy into a false sense of security before he had him shot.

"Hey, do you want to have a snowball fight?"

He blinked at Belle, who was still smiling at him as though he was someone she was walking with by choice. "What?"

"A snowball fight. Don't tell me you've never had one?"

"Of course I have had one." It was impossible to have a childhood without playing in the snow in a country like Russia. "But we should not."

"Why?"

"Several reasons." He looked over, and her eyebrow was raised, so he heaved a dramatic sigh that he didn't know he had inside him and raised a hand to tick reasons off his fingers. "One, I am Russian, so I am automatically better in the snow. Two, I fight for a living, so I would win. Three—"

"Three?" she prompted when he hesitated.

"Three—I cannot feel the snow."

Belle's face scrunched. "What?"

"I cannot feel anything, actually."

She looked like she was trying to tilt her head, but she was wrapped in too much thick fabric to get very far, so she bit her lip. He wanted to yank it out from under her teeth so that she couldn't do it again, because it made his stomach hot.

"What do you mean?"

If he was going to tell her, he might as well tell her the whole thing. He stopped walking and stepped in front of her, pointing to his forehead. "You see this scar?"

Tongue between her teeth, she squinted up at him. "Yes. Did you get hit?"

"Shot."

She clapped a hand over her mouth, and the other one wandered toward him, though Belle kept pulling it back.

"There is a bullet in my brain, and I feel nothing."

Her eyes narrowed then, and her fingers moved like she was sliding beads on an abacus. "Everything makes sense now."

"What does?"

"You." She looked up, face still drawn. "Not wanting a coat, not caring about the temperature. The way you tied my blindfold and buttoned my coat."

She'd been dwelling on the way he tied a blindfold enough to bring it up a week later? He opened his mouth to growl at her, ever the better predator even if she was observant, but she defused his ire with a tiny scrunch of her lips.

"I'm really impressed that you didn't hurt me at all—I hope you don't mind me saying. Can you feel pressure?"

"I can feel it enough."

"Do you think you could feel it enough to build a snowman?" She bit her lip again.

"What?"

"Do you want to build a snowman with me?"

He could not remember anyone ever asking him that before, even as a child. If it hadn't been Belle, he would have thought it was stupid, and the fact that he didn't think it was stupid was one that he was going to tuck away and never examine.

"Fine. But we are not dressing it."

* * *

It took them a bit to work out the logistics of the first snowball, but it soon sat in a cleared ring of snow, as tall as Renard's knees. Belle started on the second one, pushing snow into a pile. When he jogged over to help, she stood, panting with her eyes closed. He stopped to watch her.

"Renard," she said, pressing a hand to her forehead.

"Yes?"

"I think we should go inside."

He dropped the snow, brushing his hands off. His palms were pink from the cold, and Belle opened her eyes to frown at them.

"You should really wear gloves." She took one of his hands in both of hers, rubbing it between them to defrost it. "I know you can't feel, but it would be a shame to not feel and lose your hand to frost—" She swayed on her feet, and he yanked his hands away to catch her.

"—bite." She closed her eyes again, then shook herself off and stood back up. "Thank you."

"Be careful."

"I'm fine." She took his other hand and rubbed it, and he consoled himself with the thought that he would never let her do something so intimate if he could actually feel it.

"Inside?" He pointed with his free hand.

"Yeah, I just—give me one second." She closed her eyes again, clutching his hand while she pressed her other one to her forehead again. She swayed again, mumbling something as he caught her, and then her hand fell slack and she hung limp in his arms.


End file.
